About this Book

I was planning to. It depends if they shut down the whole state on account of the
snow.

It is approaching a blizzard, Dad says, pointing to a single snowflake floating its
way to the earth.

Im also supposed to rehearse with some pianist from the college that Professor
Christie dug up. Professor Christie, a retired music teacher at the university who
Ive been working with for the last few years, is always looking for victims for me to
play with. Keep you sharp so you can show all those Juilliard snobs how its really
done, she says.

I havent gotten into Juilliard yet, but my audition went really well. The Bach suite
and the Shostakovich had both flown out of me like never before, like my fingers
were just an extension of the strings and bow. When Id finished playing, panting,
my legs shaking from pressing together so hard, one judge had clapped a little,
which I guess doesnt happen very often. As Id shuffled out, that same judge had
told me that it had been a long time since the school had seen an Oregon country
girl. Professor Christie had taken that to mean a guaranteed acceptance. I wasnt so
sure that was true. And I wasnt 100 percent sure that I wanted it to be true. Just
like with Shooting Stars meteoric rise, my admission to Juilliardif it happens
will create certain complications, or, more accurately, would compound the
complications that have already cropped up in the last few months.

I sniff the coffee, the rich, black, oily French roast we all prefer. The smell alone
perks me up. Im pondering going back to bed, I say. My cellos at school, so I
cant even practice.

Not practice? For twenty-four hours? Be still, my broken heart, Mom says. Though
she has acquired a taste for classical music over the yearsits like learning to
appreciate a stinky cheeseshes been a not-always-delighted captive audience for
many of my marathon rehearsals.

I hear a crash and a boom coming from upstairs. Teddy is pounding on his drum kit.
It used to belong to Dad. Back when hed played drums in a big-in-our-town,
unknown- anywhere-else band, back when hed worked at a record store.

Dad grins at Teddys noise, and seeing that, I feel a familiar pang. I know its silly
but I have always wondered if Dad is disappointed that I didnt become a rock chick.
Id meant to. Then, in third grade, Id wandered over to the cello in music classit
looked almost human to me. It looked like if you played it, it would tell you secrets,
so I started playing. Its been almost ten years now and I havent stopped.

So much for going back to sleep, Mom yells over Teddys noise.

What do you know, the snows already melting. Dad says, puffing on his pipe. I go
to the back door and peek outside. A patch of sunlight has broken through the
clouds, and I can hear the hiss of the ice melting. I close the door and go back to the
table.

I think the county overreacted, I say.

Maybe. But they cant un-cancel school. Horse is already out of the barn, and I
already called in for the day off, Mom says.

Indeed. But we might take advantage of this unexpected boon and go somewhere,
Dad says. Take a drive. Visit Henry and Willow. Henry and Willow are some of Mom
and Dads old music friends whod also had a kid and decided to start behaving like
grown-ups. They live in a big old farmhouse. Henry does Web stuff from the barn
they converted into a home office and Willow works at a nearby hospital. They have
a baby girl. Thats the real reason Mom and Dad want to go out there. Teddy having
just turned eight and me being seventeen means that we are long past giving off
that sour-milk smell that makes adults melt.

Books that entertain, engage & enlighten

BookBrowse seeks out and recommends books that we believe to be best in class. Books that will whisk you to faraway places and times, that will expand your mind and challenge you -- the kinds of books you just can't wait to tell your friends about.

Newsletter

Subscribe to receive some of our best reviews, "beyond the book" articles, book club info & giveaways by email.